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Spread-spread for Vitellius, the royal repast,

Till the gluttonous despot be stuff'd to the gorge!
And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last

The Fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd "George!"

Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan!

Till they groan like thy people, through ages of woe!
Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne,
Like their blood which has flowed, and which yet has to flow.

But let not his name be thine idol alone

On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears!
Thine own Castlereagh! let him still be thine own!
A wretch never named but with curses and jeers!

Till now, when the isle which should blush for his birth,
Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil,
Seems proud of the reptile which crawl'd from her earth,
And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile.

Without one single ray of her genius, without
The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her race-
The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt
If she ever gave birth to a being so base.

If she did—let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd,
Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can spring-
See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush'd,
Still warming its folds in the breast of a king!

Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh! Erin, how low
Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till
Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below
The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still.

8 ["The last line-‘A name never spoke but with curses or jeers,' must run, either 'A name only uttered with curses or jeers,' or, 'A wretch never named but with curses or jeers,' becase as how 'spoke' is not grammar, except in the House of Commons. So pray put your poetical pen through the MS., and take the least bad of the emendations. Also, if there be any further breaking of Priscian's head, will you apply a plaster ?"—Lord B. to Mr. Moore, September 19.]

My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right,
My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free,
This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy fight,

And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still for thee!

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land,
I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy sons,
And I wept with the world, o'er the patriot band
Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once.

For happy are they now reposing afar,

Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all
Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war,
And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy fall.

Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves!
Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day-
Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves

Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay.

Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore,

Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled;
There was something so warm and sublime in the core
Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy-thy dead.

Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour

My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore, Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon power, 'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore!

September, 1821.


Он, talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

9 ["I composed these stanzas (except the fourth, added now) a few days ago, on the

road from Florence to Pisa.”—B. Diary, Pisa, 6th November, 1821.]

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
"Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled.
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary!
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?

Oh FAME!-if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
"Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover,
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

November, 1821.



OH! my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow!
Where is my lover? where is my lover?

Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover?
Far-far away! and alone along the billow?

Oh! my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow!
Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay?
How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly,
And my head droops over thee like the willow!

Oh! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow!

Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking,
In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking;
Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow.

Then if thou wilt-no more my lonely Pillow,
In one embrace let these arms again enfold him,
And then expire of the joy-but to behold him!

Oh! my lone bosom!-oh! my lonely Pillow!

[These verses were written by Lord Byron a little before he left Italy for Greece. They were meant to suit the Hindostanee air-"Alla Malla Punca," which the Countess Guiccioli was fond of singing.]


BENEATH Blessington's eyes

The reclaimed Paradise

Should be free as the former from evil;
But if the new Eve

For an Apple should grieve,

What mortal would not play the Devil ? 3




You have ask'd for a verse:-the request
In a rhymer 'twere strange to deny ;
But my Hippocrene was but my breast,
And my feelings (its fountain) are dry.


Were I now as I I had sung
What Lawrence has painted so well;
But the strain would expire on my tongue,
And the theme is too soft for my shell.

I am ashes where once I was fire,

And the bard in my bosom is dead;
What I loved I now merely admire,
And my heart is as grey as my head.

My life is not dated by years

There are moments which act as a plough,

And there is not a furrow appears

But is deep in my soul as my brow.

[This impromptu was uttered by Lord Byron on going with Lord and Lady Blessington to a villa at Genoa called "Il Paradiso," which his companions thought of renting.]

3 [The Genoese wits had already applied this threadbare jest to himself. Taking it into their heads that this villa had been the one fixed on for his own residence, they said, "Il Diavolo è ancora entrato in Paradiso.”—MOORE.]

Let the young and the brilliant aspire

To sing what I gaze on in vain ;
For sorrow has torn from my lyre

The string which was worthy the strain.


MISSOLONGHI, Jan. 22, 1824.*

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it hath ceased to move:
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone ;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze-
A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus-and 'tis not here

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now
Where glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

[This morning Lord Byron came from his bedroom into the apartment where Colonel Stanhope and some friends were assembled, and said with a smile-"You were complaining, the other day, that I never write any poetry now. This is my birthday, and I have just finished something, which, I think, is better than what I usually write." He then produced these noble and affecting verses.-COUNT GAMBA.]

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